


hubris

by unhappy_matt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Cursed Object, Gen, Horror, Mini-Fic, Sam is Pandora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: Sam finds a mysterious gift on his doorstep.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	hubris

**Author's Note:**

> Hello <3 Happy New Year! 
> 
> This ficlet is the first of a series of prompts I took on my Tumblr after finishing season 1. Warm thanks to the lovely Ems for sending me three fun ideas to explore.  
> The original draft of this fic was a bit rougher and quickly written; I did some editing to make it more presentable and posted it here. An alternative working title was "gift" or "gifted".
> 
> The prompt was the Douglas Adam quote "It has the words DON’T PANIC inscribed in large friendly letters”, from Hitchhicker's Guide To The Galaxy.

It’s not that Sam hears knocking at the door, or anything that would indicate someone is outside, really. It’s less of a noise, something more physical, like needles prickling at his nape.

He moves automatically—against his own judgment—his body acting before his mind has a chance to question it.

When he opens the door to their motel room, the hallway is deserted. There’s only the faint flickering of the neon lights on the ceiling, that light crackling and the burned up smell of busted light bulbs.

Flickering lights sometimes _do_ have a more boring, mundane explanation that doesn’t involve something otherworldly.

Sam looks down. On the doorstep, right near his feet, there’s an object. A small, wooden cube. It’s a warm dark brown, nearly black, its surface polished and shining weakly in the reflected light.

Sam’s fingers twitch. Something in his ears, like the whisper of a waterfall flowing.

“Sam?” From inside, Dean’s voice barely pierces through a thickening fog that is pooling around Sam’s mind. He should know better than to touch strange objects he doesn’t know when they materialize on his door with no reason, no explanation.

Sam reaches down and picks it up.

It’s a box; there’s a silver lock on one side, and no inscription, no patterns, nothing else to offer a hint at what it might be and why he found it. When he tries to open it, there’s no give.

He shakes it. A delicate ringing sound, like a chorus of wind chimes. It feels distant, muted; not as if it’s coming from inside the box and rising through the air, but as if it were echoing deep inside his own head.

Sam closes the door, bringing the box inside.

Dean looks up from where he’s going through the stuff in his duffle bag, getting ready to pack and leave soon. “Do we have company? What’s up?”

Sam is still holding the box in his palm. Dean’s question is reasonable; this motel is marginally more comfortable than many other places they’ve crashed at, but it surely doesn’t have anything like room service.

Sam shakes his head, slowly, frowning. “Nobody. I thought I heard something.”

“Hm.” Dean’s expression shifts; his eyes focus on the object Sam has cupped in his palm. “What’s that?”

Sam rubs the back of his head. “I don’t know. It was there when I opened the door.”

“It was _there_?”

Sam nods.

Dean lifts himself up from where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, stepping closer.

“Dude, that looks super cursed. Maybe we should take a look at the journal and see if we can figure out what that thing even is. Even better, how about we _don’t_ pick up strange objects that someone left on the floor.”

Dean is looking at him expectantly, but Sam can no longer remember why his brother seems so sure Sam will agree with him.

Sam stares at the box. It seems to radiate heat, a soothing warmth that seeps under his skin and travels up his arm.

“I don’t think it’s cursed,” he says, quietly, not knowing how he knows. “I think it’s a gift.”

Dean scoffs. “Sure. It looks like a super fun peace offering for the entire family. It even has the words DON’T PANIC in large friendly letters and everything,” he quotes, sounding increasingly more exasperated at Sam’s lack of a response. Sam can hear the concern in his brother’s voice, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when the box is weighing pleasantly in his hand—it’s heavier than it looks, like it’s dense—and he really wants to open it.

“Come on, then, pass it here, let’s see what it is.”

Sam doesn’t move. He feels slowed down; lethargic. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s… that’s what I’m gonna do.” The hum inside his eardrums grows louder.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Sammy?” He holds out his hand. “Hand it over, come on.” He sounds tense, now.

Sam eyes Dean’s outstretched arm. His body starts to curl into an attacking stance, and he grips the box more tightly, hiding it behind his back.

“Sam!”

They move nearly simultaneously. Dean tackles his waist and wrenches Sam’s elbow, trying to pry the box from his hand. Sam shoves him, sending him to hit the wall with a grunt.

He makes it to the bathroom before Dean can reach him again, and locks himself inside.

The box was left for him to find for a reason. For _him_ , it’s _his_ ; otherwise, Dean would have been the one to find it.

“Sam!” Dean’s fist or his foot bangs against the door, a rain of loud thuds. He’s gonna kick the door down, if he has to. There’s not much time. Sam runs his thumb over the silver lock; it’s heart-shaped.

Intuition strikes like lightning, and he knows what he has to do.

He reaches for his switchblade and he cuts a small gash across his left thumb.

The chanting grows louder, pulsing in his veins at the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Sam forgets how to breathe. He slides his bleeding finger over the silver lock.

A gut-churning scream pierces his mind, and wipes away every thought.

Sam falls to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. His arm burns. He screams with the unending cry that explodes in his head, a thousand voices together, shattering all reason.

The box opens.

Darkness jumps out, viscous, alive, and it swallows the world around him.


End file.
